Deep into the thickness of a blackened night we drank the very bad wine and smoked the most awful, resinous leavings of leaves once kind. All potent. All horrid. The crest of the summer of 1986 had passed on into a vibrating fecundity that tickles at the corners of eyes. By then the moon was gone too.

It was my last day on earth and I was celebrating in style.

Eomneon, my best friend then and now, had invited me up to sit on the Rock with him for possibly the very last time. We agreed we should have some of that wonderful Gallo port in a giant glass jug.

On The Rock
The Rock is one among a family of epoch-rounded red sandstone sediment that pokes up sporadically along the crook between the Hogback and the first actual rising slopes of the Rocky Mountains – kin with the very same sediment that made Red Rocks Park Amphitheatre, Roxborough Park and Garden of Gods, all up and down the Colorado Front Range. (The Hogback is the first sheared plate of violated rock directly west of Denver that is unquestionably not a foothill – so named for its resemblance to the spine-side of a razorback hog. I climbed a segment once to confirm that it does indeed peak at an extreme, almost knife-like angle for miles along its length.) The Rock, this particular node of sandstone, is the centerpiece of a posh subdivision where Eomneon's family had been fortunate enough to settle, for a while – until divorce set them asunder. The east-facing slope of it is mild enough to walk over to the lip of the other side: a small cliff with a long, level recess carved into it by the millennia that provided just enough shelter from rain and noonday sun to make it a perfect outdoor hideaway hangout. It's necessary to drop down into it without twisting an ankle. One could easily imagine a Native American brave making camp on the hunt, looking out over the overgrown, nearly impassable marshy swath of reeds and giant grasses and that generous view of the valley and its massive western wall.

So that's about the Rock.

My Last Day On Earth
The wine we drank from its large glass jug was sweet like sunset candy and cheap like barato cheap – affordable like the kind Jack drank – to be fair his might've been a tokay but hey, not dissimilar unto – when he was out here forgetting how write nicely and getting ready to die. We poured it into tall kitchen glasses. We swallowed in gulps because there was a lot of it.

We had to smoke the pipe scrapings that night because some Republican war pig was in office and pot was ridiculously hard to find. "It's worth its weight in hash" if you can get past the cruel taste.

It was probably my last day on earth. One could never be certain. Tomorrow my cousin would arrive from out of California. Our plans were to step together away from this world of plain scientific and moral descriptions, through the Castanedaean gash between and beyond into the limitless inconceivable. I had a great need to see if it was true what I had been warned about all my life.

I have since learned that every last thing I was ever warned about is true indeed.

If things went well we would not be defending ourselves from packs of dogs in the moonless mornings or evading trailer park denizens or starving in places not so certainly either public or private. If things went well I wouldn't find myself trying to climb a red sandstone cliff wall (the very same stuff already mentioned, only hidden this time just outside Colorado Springs) to reach the nest of noisy crows with the foolhardy hope of feasting upon one. If things went well, we would not soon become a laughing stock among friends and families and have to get food stamps and live homeless in Boulder for a short while before we were at last separated and my cousin went on get beat up, eat from dumpsters and have all his shit stolen. If things went well.

But for the time being, out on the Rock with Eomneon, the night was dedicated to the celebration of my last day on earth.

Being my last day on earth, there were some critical, final matters between me and my great friend that I knew must be settled.

Cheers.

"I admit," I said, "it sure sounds like Fripp playing that solo in Two Hands. I was just going off this article I read once that said Belew was taking more leads."

"That's such a great solo, man," Eomneon said. And I knew he had let it go. At last, even my Jewish friend had learned how to forgive.

Emboldened, I said what was really on my mind, "I know you're thinking about my sister."

He shrugged.

"I'm not saying anything. I mean I don't care and it's none of my business," I continued. "But I don't think she's gonna go for you, man. You need to get in shape."

It was no secret he was looking pretty dumpy by then, all raw pizza dough and pear-like.

Eomneon was gracious, but miffed. "Naw, man. You're wrong."

"All I'm saying."

"Dude." He fished around his fanny pack, pulled out a brass protopipe. "Let's smoke some of this delicious pot resin."

To his credit, at this time Eomneon is probably the most fit, toned individual I know. But I doubt he ever got with my sister.

Shortly thereafter I heard a hideous sound.

A long, shrill, descending shriek that cut through the pitch of night like a madding meat cleaver. Simply awful.

It was horrible. It was the sound of merciless midnight lunacy.

"What. The fuck. Is that?" I asked.

Eomneon looked at me, ever amazed at how little I know. "That's a loon, man."

"A loon," I repeated.

A crazy bird screaming with stone-cold abandon into the heart of my moonless last night on earth.

"Yeah, a loon."

The Cry Of The Loon
"Aw man," I stood up suddenly.

"What?"

"I gotta go. Let's go." Which basically means what was left of my last day on earth had begun to spin violently in seven directions. We made it up, somehow, in that blackest of summer nights only by the light of stars, over the precarious lip of the Rock and down the east side without incident. Once or twice ambling back toward his home I heard them again.

Terrible nightmare screams!

"Loon?" I asked. "You get that shit a lot out here?"

He only laughed.

We reached his back porch where I tried desperately not to get sick, clutching a beam and hanging my head over the lawn. My stomach was already in my throat and I was only vaguely aware of his dogs coming around to sniff at my ankles and my ass. I wasn't sure which way was up.

"Hey man," I said. Eomneon drew closer. "Hey man, forget about it."

"What?"

Just then the loon cried out to me: a lunatic's wail. 

"RALPH!!!" I groaned.

"Ralph?" he asked, but then heard all of my jug wine and whatnot coursing back the wrong way of me and splashing out onto the rocks and grass. He knew what I meant. Stepped back.

"Loon," I gasped finally. "Forget about it."

The spins were already mounting again. After a while I moaned, "Wow man, that loon sounds just like a crazy bitch's scream."

Eomneon, my best friend in the world, agreed, "That's the sound of one nutty lady. You ready for some more wine?"

"Oh no..." Spins spins spins.

Then, again, from out of the deep and unknowable fathoms of night came the loon's horrific sound:

AAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

"RALPH!!!"

It went on for some time just so: the loon screaming at me and me wretchedly retching for Ralph.

I would have to face my last day on earth with a jug wine hangover.

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This post intends to be the wrap-up, awards and analysis of my foolhardy, more than mildly entertaining, sometimes perplexing, often alienating and ultimately unimportant challenge post project.

I've got posts about The Beatles, your tiny little Irish Temper, old school Anime, what my wife is not (will I have the courage?), yet another lost beloved installment and who knows what other madness all lined up, plus I'm trying to write about four novels and get a real job, so

Let's make this quick.

And the results are (drum roll please):

Two of three challenge posts were featured on the Xanga Front Page! Back-to-back, no less.

A lot of folks kept congratulating me, and I had to keep reminding them that this means I lost the challenge. I long ago gave up trying and desiring to be featured.

In fact, this whole experience has convinced me that I'll be happy to never be featured again.

It's all the more bitter sweet because since I had to turn off Sign-In Lock I was discovered, ratted out and my life was ruined thanks to this challenge. Divorce, jail, AIDS. Just kidding. It could happen, though.

AWARDS
Losing the challenge means I have to honor the conditions of said loss. I already purchased my one month of Premium Xanga. Wow, it's really so cool too. While I was at it I availed myself of the AdSense program – maybe I'll even make my money back! So get some.

Secondly, I promise to never again write anything mean about the "Xanga Team" (whatever that really actually is). A dog's hind leg, does, after all, belong to a wonderful doggy. So I'll try like the devil to keep kind.

Finally, to my formerly dear and not at all sweet friend, A Horrible Strange Person and Victimization Addict, I concede to your long-held conviction:

Yes, Horrible Strange Person,
you are quite right!
It is without question
not difficult to get featured
on the Xanga Front Page!!
!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So there's that.

And thanks to all of you who participated! You made this experience what it was. Whatever it was. What was it?

ANALYSIS
On to the analysis. This portion of the show is dedicated to my friend TheBigShowAtUD for his constant encouragement and tender-hearted mentoring. He helped me slog through the tough spots in my quest for defeat. Thanks, man *sniff* I couldn't've... ah hell, thanks for being there.

At the heart of this challenge is the raging debate about what it takes to get featured. If that's a goal. Which it was then but it's not now and wasn't before, but that was after it was. Some think that favoritism is in play. Others think formula, still others claim talent or skill can get one featured. Some are pretty sure it's random or at least at all times unknowable.

One revealing clue was in theTheologiansCafe's only comment ever on my blog when he said he never gets featured anymore but that he could post the same exact stuff under a new account and would get featured every time. This suggest that favoritism (or anti-favoritism in this case) and formula are factors in play. If he's right. But he's always saying stuff like that. But I know that sneaky Cylon already openly admitted doing shit like that, so I took it like gospel. Which gave rise to the formulaic "controversial topical" post.

Challenge Post #1: Controversial Topic Formula
Interracial Marriage: What About the Kids? was as crass and mindless as I could make it. It took me less time to think up and write that blog than some of my Pulses. Short copy. Big images. Current events. Racism. President Obama. Pop culture. I went right for the jugular. I filled my end of the bargain, and you, my dear readers, made it happen. Big time featured with gobs of recs and submits. I was swimming in pages and pages of comments. I got a lot of compliments for my writing, which made me laugh. There were some trolls and some 'tards who asked me to toss them out on their ears – not too bad. I had to block that little guy S_K_O_T who was so thrilled when I misspelled anti-Semitic in my reply to him that it gave him license to write a whole new book of onanistic absurdities on my site. Wrong. Not playing.

So this seemed to show that the type of formulaic topical presentation used by several prominent Xangans is a real crowd-pleaser likely to make feature. 

(For those who are interested: it seems like as of the original posting of this entry – 11/4/09 – that dumb old judge Bardwell announced early retirement – without further comment.)

Challenge Post #2: MetaBlog Formula
Hey Xangan, What's Your Blogotype? was a calculated risk. It was a stunt post. I wasn't sure if I should try another type of formula or stick with the one that performed so well. If I failed to make Front Page, then critics could complain that my effort was not sincerely robust. I wanted to do a "list" type of entry, and as I scrolled through the featured archives I made a note that a metablog hadn't been up there in a while, so I cooked up the whole ridiculous premise. If you read it in a certain light you can see that I was already weary of the "ease" of getting featured. It was just another formula I'd seen many times. Again many of my supporters came through for me and Xanga Team bit. Traffic was less spectacular and I think a lot of people took me seriously. Oh well. For the record, I am the Stunt Blogger, but the rest of that shit I just made it up on the spot. It was just funny to me – that's all.

Once again I think we saw the performance of yet another formulaic approach.

Challenge Post #3: Scatalogical Formula
I Like to Smell My Own Poo was actually the real reason I pulled this prank. I just wanted to get as many people as possible to read it. It likely comes as no surprise to many of my long time readers, since I have been warning you about it since last May. I wrote it in June and went live last week with only minor edits.

The poo blog is a classic formula. Originally I had in mind to go on about it, but let me just say that those of you who congratulated some arguably more popular blogger of the top variety for his or her post about poo and then either ignored or gave me looks askance, shame on you hypocrites. My poo blog is way, way cuter.

I must also mention how I was very, very disappointed in my readers who failed to rec and submit as I had asked – I had to resort to submitting it myself and time-stamping like a top-blogger. Only my great friend, my own personal Doubting Thomas complicatedlight, had the courage to dip his finger in, so to speak, and rec the only blog in the series that really mattered.

Perhaps the failure of the poo post to make Front Page says something about the theory of favoritism in the feature selection process. If I had been a favorite, I bet they would have put it up in a heartbeat.

So at the very end of it all can I honestly say it's cinch to get featured on the Front Page? Perhaps, if you like to write shallow and insincere posts in a dumbed-down-for-children style, following the formula of someone else with similarly mediocre aspirations. I found that to be rather difficult, though.

For those of you who have concerns that I have indeed lost my mind, take heart. Once my Premium runs out and the AdSense turns off I'll be going back on Sign-In Lock and returning to more familiar stunts, pranks and confessions. I missed my friends. That must have been kind of like how it was for Jesus.

As for whether it takes talent to get featured, I never set out to address that question. I will say that my challenge posts demonstrate the unrivaled genius lurking in my cranium. I said I would try as I hard I would even though it meant I would lose, and I did it, and I nailed it spot on – plus I made you look at the Poo Post, which was definitely more exciting.

db